


For Warmth

by elzierav



Category: RWBY
Genre: Bad Puns, Clover is a nerd, F/F, Hand puns, Huddling For Warmth, Hugs, M/M, Relationship Advice, Scars, Touch-Starved, Trauma, bumbleby if you squint, cockblocking Ironwood, fair game, inappropriate weapon use, like penguins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22115770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: Set after Vol 7 Ep 8. Qrow volunteered to go repair and activate the emergency generator to power the heating system that just shut down in Mantle. But without heating, it’s too cold to stay awake, let alone work, so Clover and Qrow have to huddle for warmth.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 177





	For Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: explicit content, mild swearing, mention of trauma and past injuries
> 
> Loosely inspired by [LightRain_09’s fair game drabble ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828004/chapters/52092289), it’s lovely, go read it. This was supposed to be a short fluffy crack fic, not sure how it turned out so angsty… hope you enjoy!

Qrow exhales quietly, a cloud of vapour condensing before his lips in the icy air. Against the wall of the tiny, dark warehouse, the damage on the heating system’s vandalised secondary generator looks way too familiar - savage cuts from curved blades that had sliced clean through circuit boards, tangled cables, rusty casing. Metal sliced and torn apart like…

He closes his eyes, his stomach lurching slowly. The scenes flash against the dark screen of his eyelids. Tyrian’s eyes turning purple, a crazed maniacal smile twisting his lips... The cackle of his laugh amongst falling rose petals, too many falling petals… A sickening  _ slash  _ noise of ripping flesh, a flash of brown, purple, red, too much red… Instinctively, Qrow presses a hand against his stomach. It’s over, he tells himself, it’s just a scar now… it’s just a memory, like the nightmare from last night, like the nightmares from too many nights. It’s over now... Tyrian isn’t here… it’s only…

“Qrow, everything fine in there?” Clover’s concerned tone echoes through the cold silence. 

Clover’s voice, chirping metallically through comms. Clover’s voice, that’s real, that’s now. Focus on now. Not on the past. Breathe in. 

“Yes, just a bad feeling. The generator’s in rough shape, I’ll have to fix some things before I can start it.”

Breathe out. 

“You need any help?”

“I’ll be okay. Just stay there, guard the door, and make sure the kids don’t get into trouble. How did you...”

“We just had a surge in Grimm activity out here. Blake, Yang, and I are the only people apart from you in these parts of Mantle, and there weren’t any wave of negative feelings from the three of us just now.”

So it must be from Qrow. Somehow, even when far away from his niece and her partner, he managed to cause them trouble by drawing in the Grimm upon them. The scythe wielder had specifically volunteered to go alone into the warehouse to repair and activate the emergency generator to power the heating system that seemingly just shut down in Mantle. This generator can only be turned on manually, so at least it can’t be hacked. Meanwhile, Clover and the girls were to stand guard outside, fending off any Grimm in that remote part of town. Even with that arrangement, Qrow managed to mess up. The Ace Op captain isn’t stupid, the shapeshifter isn’t surprised he figured it out. At least the Atlesian is tactful enough not to mention it - Qrow can be grateful to be on this mission with the ever-optimistic poster boy rather than a certain Winter Schnee. 

Breathe in. 

“Can’t say I’m surprised, lucky charm, seeing you always seem to radiate positivity...”

Breathe out. Focus on now. Focus on the secondary generator, on repairing it and getting it started. Focus on moving forward. Focus on Clover’s words, the genuine twinge of pride and gratitude in his response.

“I’ll take that as a compliment...” 

“Could use some help there,” Blake interrupts, over the snarls of nearing Grimm. 

“You mean you could use a  _ hand _ ?” Yang’s recognisable voice resonates through comms, half covered by the loud firing or her shotgun gauntlet. 

“I’ll leave you guys to it. Qrow out.”

* * *

Without hesitation, Blake throws her weapon forward, the blade tracing a graceful arc in the chill night air before lodging between the shoulder blades of the imposing Manticore facing the trio. Simultaneously, Clover swings Kingfisher from the other side, the hook impaling the dark creature at the ribs. On either side, the Faunus and the Ace Op pull on their ribbon and fishing line respectively, holding the hissing monster in place. The titanic, toothy jaws open, ready to shoot out a fire orb - this is Yang’s chance to strike. With a wink toward her partner, the blonde pounces forward, absorbing the beast’s flames with her Semblance before punching and shooting with Ember Celica down the Manticore’s throat until it collapses into a rain of sooty particles. Yang catches Gambol Shroud mid-fall, flipping it into katana form before jumping at the monster’s twin. 

Using her weapon’s recoil to propel herself upward, she lands above the horned head, securing herself with the ribbon of Blake’s weapon into a perilous rodeo. The creature shakes frantically, bouncing up on two legs, wings outstretched and beating at an increasing rate in a furious attempt to knock the young Huntress off. But before Yang can notice, Clover has dashed forward, weapon brandished like a spear to stab the Manticore in its exposed black belly. She lands on one knee and one fist as the creature dissolves under her, instantly helped to her feet by the Operative. 

“Thanks for the hand,” she smirks, “that was pretty awesome. I can see why Uncle Qrow looks at you that way, he has good taste in fighters.”

“Thank you, you’re not half bad yourself… but what way? What are you talking about?” Clover’s glare carries hints of honest surprise, eliciting a chuckle from the blonde.

“Qrow has his own way to show people he likes them. Trust me, with how obvious and cheesy you’ve been with him all this time, he must like you a lot if you haven’t been stabbed with Harbinger through the chest yet.”

“... yet?” the Atlesian echoes, dumbfounded. 

“About that, if you ruffle a single feather off my uncle, I can swear that before he even draws his scythe, Ruby and I will personally...”

“Yang? How are you guys doing?” Blake calls out in accidentally well-placed censorship - Clover can only thank his semblance for that convenient timing.

“Just  _ yanging  _ there, y’know...”

“Can I get my weapon back?”

Wielding only the cleaver part of Gambol Shroud, Blake is a flurry of parries and slashes, keeping half a dozen smaller Grimm at bay circling around her. Spinning with a one-hand flourish to protect her back, she raises her other arm to catch her katana as Yang tosses it. In one smooth motion, she transforms it into its gun form and shoots out a volley of ice dust rounds, freezing the creatures into place. Yang recognises her cue, flexing her wrists before jumping in to obliterate the monsters with her fists before they can thaw. Clover nods toward her as he joins in, swinging the pole of Kingfisher in a wide orbit to wipe out all remaining ice statues in one fell swoop. 

“Nice work, you two,” the captain acknowledges. 

“Looks like we’re clear...” the feline Faunus notices. “It’s pretty cold out here. It really makes a difference when the heating system is down.”

“Exerting kept us warm while there were Grimm to fight,” Yang remarks, rubbing her flesh and metal palms against one another rather ineffectively. “Maybe we should find some other form of exertion to pass the time while Uncle Qrow finishes with the generator.”

Clover pretends not to notice the suggestive wink Qrow’s niece shot at her raven-haired friend. 

“I will… uh… check if Qrow needs anything. Wonder what’s taking him so long, the emergency generator must have been sabotaged or something...”

“Yeah, having an Atlesian around help with technology can come in pretty handy,” the brawler concurs, wrapping an arm around Blake’s shoulders to keep her warm. 

“Sorry about all the hand jokes,” says the cat-eared Huntress, “for that you’ll have to forgive my comrade in  _ arms _ . ”

“Sure,” Clover laughs, “but I doubt Qrow needs that much help with tech, seeing the weapon he managed to make while he was a teen...” 

“Fawning all over his nice big sword, aren’t we?” the blonde teases with a warm chortle. 

“Uh...”

“ _ Yang! _ ”

“Okay, sorry, this is getting out of  _ hand _ …”

“At least you’re more fun than the Ace Ops while on missions,” the blushing Atlesian mumbles before an embarrassed pause. 

“Clover?” Blake prompts, suddenly solemn as she leans into a giggling Yang’s arm embrace. “Qrow’s the kind of guy who’ll perceive himself as a liability to those he loves because of his Semblance and his past, and try to escape at some point. Literally or figuratively. So before that happens and he tries to run away from you, to protect you, you should seize your chance and show him you’re there for him when he needs it no matter what… because he needs it and deserves it.”

Albeit taken aback by her seriousness, the Ace Op can feel the urgency in her words, the need to tell him before it’s too late, now or never.

“If I’m a lucky guy, I won’t miss my chance… thanks for the heads up, you sure have a lot of wisdom to share for such a young Huntress.”

The Faunus turns away, staring into the distance. 

“I read a lot of novels.”

“I did too when I was your age, believe it or not, shame I don’t get the time any more,” he muses distractedly. 

“Time flies… good luck, Clover.”

With that and a wink from Yang, Clover pushes the warehouse door open. 

***

Keep moving. Keep your eyes open. Keep your hands moving so your fingers won’t freeze and fall off…

With the heating system still off, Qrow’s respiration comes out in ragged breath as he desperately tries to preserve heat while fumbling with wire-cutting pliers to extract the damaged circuitry. He’s been working for minutes… too many minutes… it’s so cold even time seems to have frozen to a standstill, and it’s all going too slow. His face is numb, his legs are numb, his fingers are getting numb but he has to keep moving on. He balls his hands into fists and opens them again, to get the blood flowing, get the heat flowing. Or whatever meagre amount of heat still lives in him. 

His fingers are shaking, he’s worried he’ll cut something unintended or that he’ll shock his knuckles against loose wiring. Heck, his knees are shaking, his world is jittering around a little bit. But not in a good way, he needs a drink. He needs something to burn him inside out, to burn away the memories in the darkest corners of his mind. But the memories never really go away, and the traumatic events just accumulate, day after day, year after year. It doesn’t really get better; it isn’t even really a cycle that can be escaped… all he can do is not think about Tyrian, about the past, about Raven and all of the others. All he can do is numb the pain like his face is numb and his neck is numb and his legs are numb…

Keep moving on. He discard another bundle of torn cables like an afterthought and moves on like an automaton - a shaking, rusty automaton. Then he reaches for that neat little briefcase Winter had given him with a scowl. It’s blue and white and cleanly packed with tools and spare parts for the generator in apple pie order like a boy scout’s lunchbox. He finds the corresponding wires and chips he needs to replace, holds them like treasures in his trembling palms. 

The biggest chip has those tiny, spindly legs like a Deathstalker. Qrow nonsensically chuckles at that as he tries to adjust each peg in its hole, into the patchwork circuit board he’d painstakingly glued back together. But his hands are shaking too much and his mind is too numb. The cold is seeping from the outside in and spreading from the inside out, like a blooming ice flower stemming from his empty stomach. 

When’s the last time he ate? He can’t remember because he can’t think about the past he must keep moving forward and it’s too cold. 

Heck, when’s the last time he slept? Those goddamn nightmares keep waking him up in sweat in those stiff Atlesian military grade sheets. 

But now it’s cold and he’s not sweating...

..and his eyelids are heavy…

“You doing okay in there?”

The shapeshifter jolts out of his skin at Clover’s whisper behind his back. The Operative deftly catches the chip falling out of Qrow’s wobbly, sleepy fingers - why does his timing always have to be so  _ perfect _ ? - and helps him adjust it back in place. 

“Maybe if you hold those two pieces of the circuit board together while the glue dries, it’ll be easier for me to pin the chip on,” the Ace Op suggests affably. 

“Hmm.”

“Your fingers are cold, you must have been freezing in here. The insulation’s nonexistent and there’s not even enough space to walk around. Good for the rest of us who kept warm by fighting Grimm.”

“You left my niece and her girlfriend out there?”

“There’s barely enough space here for two, let alone four. And they looked like they needed some time alone.”

Qrow turns to the Atlesian abruptly, heavy lidded crimson eyes meeting wide open teal ones. 

“Why do you think I asked you to stay out there with them?”

“Because you looked like you needed some time alone.”

A small, wary grin flashes against Qrow’s chapped lips, and the Huntsman would have sworn he could see a blush ascending to Clover’s cheeks in the semi-obscurity. 

“There, done,” the soldier says, finally pinning the chip into its dedicated sockets. “You look more awake now.”

“I told you to stay with the girls because I trust you to protect them. More than I trust myself, anyway.”

“That… means a lot to me. But you’re a legendary huntsman who took eight kids safely across a continent, you should give yourself more credit. Here, transistor.”

“Thanks,” Qrow picked the small component from Clover’s open palm, fingers lingering for slow seconds to enjoy the welcome warmth of the Operative’s smooth skin. “It’s not that… I think this is too convenient. The heating system in Mantle suddenly shuts down while we’re at that Schnee house party, and there’s a secondary emergency generator except that it’s been sabotaged and we need to repair it by hand. It seems like someone is trying to lure us out here, some of the Huntsmen and some of Ironwood’s best men… someone wanted us to come here, and we just handed them our arses on a silver platter.”

The thought of Tyrian, of the serial killer attacking the girls standing guard outside while Qrow can’t do anything to stop him, his Semblance potentially causing them more harm than good... the weight of that mere thought bears too much pain. But the Huntsman has to shrug it off, continue breathing, continue pressing forward. Clover pats him on the shoulder sympathetically, and for a second the weight simply shifts, becoming ever so slightly more bearable.

“Easy there, birdie. You’ve been working alone in the cold for a while, your mind’s not clear. If you remember the mission brief from Commander Schnee, the secondary generator hasn’t been used for more than five years. It’s only put to use when the primary fails, and usually it can be activated remotely by sending robots. It’s very likely it’s been sabotaged a while ago, rather than tonight specifically to lure us in. This is SDC property after all, and some people can only express their discontent against Jacques Schnee by vandalising his company property.”

“Jacques Schnee can go shove it… maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just cold and tired because I haven’t slept or eaten in a while… sorry, I’m such a burden right now...”

“Didn’t you have anything for dinner?”

“Hey, you were the one they invited, remember?”

Clover laughs lightly, holding up a set of wires for Qrow to replace the damaged ones with. 

“I would have sneaked you some food. I thought there was a buffet.”

“How was the fancy dinner?”

“Cold, after everyone was done yelling at each other.”

“I didn’t miss much then. I just went off patrolling the grounds. Too much… wine and stuff at that buffet.”

The Operative must have noticed how Qrow acts around any drinks, how his glances flicker nervously near bars, how his pocket contains an empty flask he never reaches for, never after his hand jerked back imperceptibly, shakily. Qrow wouldn’t have been surprised if Clover’s noticed it all, because Clover’s so smart and perfect and Qrow’s a disgrace like that... the Operative’s shoulders slump slightly in reflexion, but he doesn’t mention it, much to Qrow’s relied, now’s not the time.

“I understand. We’ll make sandwiches when we get back to the Academy.”

Clover’s words are simple and encouraging, despite his awareness of Qrow’s predicament,  _ because  _ of his awareness, and warmth slowly returns to Qrow’s freezing heart.

“Can you hand me the smaller pliers please? Those that...”

“Here,” Clover already replies, handing his partner the appropriate tool.

“You’re pretty good at this. Wouldn’t have expected it, you probably don’t get to fix that many electronic parts on your weapon.”

“I was a nerd when I was younger. Really into tech and all that nerdy stuff. Would you believe it?”

“Well, that’s kind of cute. If you don’t mind me asking, why the fishing rod? Why not something fancier if you can handle the repairs?”

“Atlas military requires us connecting all of our devices to the central system, including weapons.” Clover explains, glaring intently at some intricate details of circuitry to hide his blooming blush, “for trackers, speed sensors, Aura meters, and so forth. This helps our support teams track our location to send help when needed, and Pietro and his engineers collect stats on our combat styles to design weapon upgrades. If someone hacks into the central system, you don’t want them to take control of the high ranking military’s weapons too, which would happen if our weapons were more electronically automated.”

“Oh, that explains why Winter’s sword’s not also a gun, and why Ironwood’s gun is also a gun, and nothing else.”

“Now you get why we’re lame,” Clover snorts, a sincere smile playing at his lips. 

Qrow gives an exhausted laugh, and for a few minutes they work quietly, hands brushing as tools and components are passed over, hips and shoulders sometimes colliding while trying to manoeuvre the tight warehouse space. 

“You know, the banter wasn’t bad to keep me awake,” Qrow notices shakily.

“You want me to keep you warm too?”

“Only if it doesn’t make me fall asleep.”

One of Clover’s large, muscular hands wraps around Qrow’s left shoulder, rubbing it vigorously to generate heat. At that, Qrow’s fingers refrain from shaking, smoothly encasing a small copper coil into place. 

“I’ll have you know I have another arm on my right,” the shapeshifter grumbles raspily. 

“Poor ambidextrous Qrow, who needs both his hands to work,” the Atlesian teases gently, moving behind the smaller man to access both of his shoulders symmetrically. 

“How do you manage to keep so warm? Was your Aura trained from youth to support cold Atlas weather?”

“Something like that.”

“Is that why you can show off those nice bare arms of yours around the frozen tundra without freezing your butt off?”

“Did the great Qrow Branwen just admit he likes my arms?”

Each syllable sends a burning breeze down the Huntsman’s neck, earning a slight shiver. The Ace Op’s chiselled chest exerts increasing pressure against his back as Clover moves in to hug him tighter, to wrap those exquisite arms around him even closer. Qrow leans into the touch, barely remembering the last time anyone ever touched him like that, how simple and nice it feels.

“The great Qrow Branwen says he likes it when you hand him the screwdriver,” he scowls without aggressivity. 

“Here you go,” comes the immediate answer along with the exact caliber he needs out of a box of a dozen screwdrivers - that man’s really  _ something _ , Qrow continues to realise. 

The shapeshifter must suppress a shivering whimper at the loss of contact as his partner had to bend down to reach for the toolbox. Somehow, just his stupid luck most likely, Clover seems to notice that and wraps an arm around Qrow’s narrower waist, the touch of his fingers ghosting over his hipbones through his cold clothes. The Huntsman hums in approval and rests his weight into the Operative’s shoulder, huddling for warmth. This configuration turns out to yield efficient results, as both quickly progress in reassembling the circuit boards and stitching their casing back together in companionable silence. 

“‘M falling asleep,” the shapeshifter slurs, contemplating their work through heavy lids with only a large lever left to screw back on. 

“I’ve been neglecting my duty, I should be keeping you awake. Does this help?”

Clover tentatively runs his fingers against the angle of Qrow’s hipbone, caressing the lean, defined muscles of his lower abdomen through his shirt. 

“That tickles.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Mmm.”

The Ace Op’s burning fingertips brush smooth circles against Qrow’s stomach, slowly climbing their way up as the older man’s heart flutters like a million Nevermores taking flight. Clover’s hands move firmly, meticulously like he does everything else, double checking to ensure he leaves no area of his partner’s torso unmapped, massaging every plane of wary muscle and every trembling curve through layers of clothing. The tools are wobbling again in Qrow’s hands, albeit for different reasons as newfound warmth quickly spreads through his body. The Operative’s digits trace upward across his chest, toward the shapeshifter’s throbbing Adam’s apple. He leans in closer, for more shared body heat, fingers massaging Qrow’s shoulders while lips gently trail the side of the older man’s neck, peppering pale skin with feather-light kisses. Qrow inhales sharply, audibly beside his partner’s ear. 

“Is that good or bad?” Clover murmurs, hesitation flickering in his tone. 

But Qrow’s done with the little games. He’d always enjoyed games, with the twists and turns his Semblance conferred, he’d always enjoyed Clover’s wit and warm banter. But now’s not the time, with how uncertain the future looks, if the past’s anything to judge by. Right now Qrow’s soul is too wary for games, and he cannot afford to gamble anything, he must seize the chance before it escapes, before it’s too late, before destiny closes in. 

A metallic click and the whirring of clockwork echo in quick succession. A sudden impact pushes the Ace Op at the chest, too fast even for him to react as his back hit the warehouse wall. The next second, Harbinger’s gigantic blade in scythe mode impales the concrete wall deeply just inches from his arm, the weapon’s horizontal handle pressed against his chest. Qrow lets go of his weapon, its blade sunk into the concrete keeping it in place while the handle continues to constrict the soldier’s respiration and keeps him pinned to the vertical surface. Teal eyes glow dangerously, hungrily, and Qrow admires the product of his actions simply egging Clover’s desire further. 

“Will you stop teasing,” the shapeshifter hisses before leaning in to capture the Ace Op’s lips with his own.

They kiss savagely, the air instantly growing thick and electric around them. Rough fingers pull at Qrow’s scalp, thumbs firmly brush his stubbly jawline as tongues and teeth clash desperately, passionately. It’s everything the Huntsman imagined, everything he dared hope but better, stronger, and he can’t help wanting more, wanting him now. Both of them know later might be too late, and it’s now or never. 

They can’t breathe, Harbinger pressing at their lungs between them doesn’t help. Yet they can’t stop, never want to, and it’s over too quickly when the shapeshifter breaks the kiss, only leaving a cold breeze against Clover’s swollen, flustered lips.

“Qrow...” he groans, a pang of regret tightening around the older man’s throat as duty calls. 

“Just don’t distract me for a minute while I screw that lever in place and start that bloody generator. Then I’m all yours.”

“Then you’ll move on to screwing me?”

“Maybe, if you’re being good.”

Still pinned to the wall by Qrow’s scythe - which he could remove to free himself, did it not rather excite him - Clover can only stare at the other man’s lithe figure as he brings final touches to their handiwork, lowering the large lever that sets off a collection of flickering lights signalling the generator was back to working. 

“Good job,” the Ace Op exhales as long fingers are already rummaging his bare shoulders, travelling up his neck to cup his jaw. “Shouldn’t we get back to -”

Qrow’s thumb caressing the corner of his lips interrupts him, before the Huntsman whispers: 

“We should stay for a while and make sure nothing explodes and the generator stays on. With my luck, I can’t be sure...”

Clover would normally have protested, his own fortune making a very solid counter-argument, but he can only concur as an agile tongue runs against his lips, eliciting a soft muffled gasp. 

“Let’s stay until the heating starts to be noticeable,” the soldier suggests weakly before leaning in to kiss Qrow once more.

The Huntsman grumbles in agreement, kissing back eagerly, heat coursing through every fiber of his body, every coldest corner of his soul. He moves to press a thigh between Clover’s legs, at which the younger man whimpers adorably. A pair of strong hands are at Qrow’s behind, groping his butt cheeks and molding them to his liking. The layers of uniform between them, too many layers, are starting to annoy him, but he doesn’t want to break the kiss, needs to taste more of Clover. He tastes like peppermint cluttered with dew drops at dawn, and everything seems so simple suddenly, everything doesn’t have to be so complicated any more…

“You’re so good, so goddamn beautiful...” Qrow sighs, stepping back to stare deeply into the teal eyes filled to the brim with lust and adoration. 

The shapeshifter tugs tentatively at the waistband of his partner’s impossibly tight uniform. This seems unadvised, it’s still incredibly cold outside, but Qrow’s sure Clover’s Aura can take it, besides the Ace Op is already helping him fumble through the system of straps and belts, giggling bashfully into the crook of Qrow’s neck. The older man marvels as his fingers finally find Clover’s sizeable member, the captain’s laughs turning to wanton moans against Qrow’s neck as the shapeshifter strokes up and down experimentally through the sturdy fabric of his military issue underwear… but curse Qrow’s luck, a too familiar tune interrupts his ministrations.

“General Ironwood, sir,” Clover says professionally, only the slightest tremor in his voice, precipitantly switching his earpiece back on and patching the call on his buzzing Scroll onto comms - some times are good for video calls, but now is not one of those times. 

“Alpha, we have an emergency.”

“What is it, sir? Heating is back in Mantle for now, we managed to fix the emergency generator.”

“The heating system was a distraction to draw our attention away from Atlas. You have to return immediately, your airship already awaits. Tyrian and Hazel attacked Robyn’s transport as she left Schnee’s party.”

* * *

At those words, Blake rips off her earpiece along with Yang’s. The surprised blonde reaches for her earlobe reflexively, before the Faunus takes her hand and holds it tight, never wanting to let go. 

“I think I know what their plan is,” the brunette whispers urgently. ”They’re forcing Ironwood and Schnee to intervene, because it’d look bad if they don’t come to aid an opponent in trouble, they might get framed for attacking Robyn. And when they lure the General in, they want to use Robyn’s Semblance to force him to reveal some things.”

“The location of the Atlas relic,” the brawler realises. “And the Winter Maiden. Blake, you’re a genius, how did you figure it out?”

Their foreheads almost touch as they stand holding hands in the snow, breathing the same warmed, nervous air, knowing they can count only on one another. 

“I read a lot of books,” the cat-eared Huntress shrugs. 

* * *

“We’d better get going,” Clover judges, fastening his uniform back on with some difficulty as Harbinger’s handle still constricts his chest. “Can you make sure the toolbox is in order?”

“Good call, Winter would’ve killed me if there were so much as a scratch on it,” the shapeshifter comments. 

As an afterthought, he reaches for the handle of his weapon and presses a switch, collapsing it back to its storage form. The sudden release of pressure makes Clover stumble forward, quickly regaining his balance on his nimble feet. 

“Lucky you I’ll need my weapon for this,” Qrow muses fondly. 

“Lucky me indeed.”

They draw in a deep breath, bracing themselves to face the cold and the dead of night outside the warehouse door. 

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I know next to nothing about hardware, being more of a software person, so please forgive/point out any inconsistencies with that. This is barely edited and probably full of typos because I wanted to finish it and put it out before the next episode airs, in all likelihood later today, in case any of my predictions turn out to be not too off, you never know. Particularly about the part where the heating system’s a distraction (it doesn’t look useful otherwise, making Jacques look bad too) and Tyrian’s after Robyn to use her for her Semblance, I’d quite like to see that since we see them fight in the opening credits.  
> Please let me know if you’d like more chapters of this, which would evolve into a canon divergent storyline, or if you’d like more unrelated fair game one shots. Stay warm (huddle like penguins if you must) and posted xx


End file.
